


starved for (your) company

by elloquial



Series: elloquial's lockdown fix-it [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Baking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Lockdown Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Quarantine, but really, full of tropes and wildly self-indulgent, zoom dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24025225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elloquial/pseuds/elloquial
Summary: He’s calling Crowley before he can fret about consequences and implications for another moment. The first three rings, which he listens to with dread mounting in his core, are torturous. But then Crowley answers, and his surly (awake!) voice is such a relief that Aziraphale skips hello entirely.“Would you like to do zooms with me?”(in which Aziraphale sets up nightly zoom meetings to keep Crowley from hibernating, and eventually re-evaluates his stance on quarantining together)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: elloquial's lockdown fix-it [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749652
Comments: 22
Kudos: 205





	starved for (your) company

**Author's Note:**

> christening a new account by jumping on the zeitgeist of the wonderful Lockdown ep? you know it! will probably follow up with the inevitable "close quarters makes them confess their love" sequel if there's interest :)

“Right...I’m setting the alarm clock for July. Goodnight, angel.” 

The line goes dead before Aziraphale can think of anything to keep Crowley talking. His thumb hovers over the redial button. He doesn’t know how many times Crowley’s slept for a long stretch like that, but he does know it’s never good for him. The demon wakes up sour and disoriented and making impossible, worrying demands of him. And then there’s the not inconsequential fact that Aziraphale can only bury himself in a book for so long before he’s got to get up and talk to someone, and that someone’s supposed to be Crowley. He could phone Anathema, he supposes, or Madame Tracy, but it’s been so long since he’s had to go more than a few days without seeing the demon, and he’d honestly thought things were _different_ now. That since they’d cut ties with their respective head offices, since they didn’t have to play it safe anymore, that they wouldn’t have to be apart again. That Crowley wouldn’t leave him like this.

But he’d offered not to leave, Aziraphale remembers, guilt squirming in his stomach. He’d offered to come be with him and Aziraphale had just told him no. Again. But it _was_ against the rules, wasn’t it, and though he isn’t really a principality anymore, Aziraphale’s not about to go setting a bad example. Not even if it would make him happy. Extremely, unprecedentedly, wholly happy, to have Crowley right at his side for an indefinite period of time, and that’s part of his hesitation, too. Because in all the millennia they’ve spent drifting closer together, there has always loomed the inscrutable threat of getting _too_ close. Both literally (“angel, demon...probably explode”) and figuratively (close meant open, close meant not hiding, close meant so much room for missteps and for finding out they were just too different, after all). Living together, even temporarily...that was quite close.

Aziraphale puts on the kettle, leans hard against the counter, thinks. If he can just convince Crowley to hold out for a bit, talk to him every few days, he’s sure they can get through this. He thinks of the humans he’s seen on the news, masked and quarantined and carrying on with everything that can be carried on with at a safe distance. They’re getting by with technology. Why can’t he?

He’s calling Crowley before he can fret about consequences and implications for another moment. The first three rings, which he listens to with dread mounting in his core, are torturous. But then Crowley answers, and his surly (awake!) voice is such a relief that Aziraphale skips hello entirely.

“Would you like to do zooms with me?”

* * *

They schedule their first zoom (“zoom _meeting_ , Aziraphale, you can’t just call it the— ah, forget it”) for the following evening at six. Crowley takes surprisingly little convincing, so Aziraphale pushes his luck and asks to meet daily. He takes Crowley’s non-committal “we’ll see” as the closest thing to a yes he’s going to get, and celebrates the rest of the evening with a few chapters of a picaresque novel that’s been on his list for decades. 

Around noon, Crowley sends him instructions for installing the application on his laptop (brand new, in Aziraphale’s mind, though it’s actually so old that it runs more on miracles than on software). He follows them up to step three, gets bored, and then sees the little blue icon has found its way to his desktop anyway. He enters the numbers Crowley sends him at the appointed time, and the demon’s visage fills his screen.

He beams. “Hello, Crowley!” 

Crowley stares a moment, then throws his head back and cackles. “You— you look like the Home Alone shower clown.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Crowley’s still laughing. “I mean you’re just a silhouette, angel. Can you move somewhere the light’s in front of you, so I can see you?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks at the view of his own camera, and indeed, he is horrendously backlit. He moves to the sofa and slides his reading lamp to face him. “Better?”

“Yeah,” says Crowley, “much.” He catches Aziraphale fixing his collar in the camera, spends a few moments teasing him for it. “So,” he drawls afterwards, leaning back (he’s in that throne of his, Aziraphale notices, slung over it sideways). “Getting on alright? Making a dent in those pastries?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale lies, staring at the cakes and cookies occupying most of the coffee table and trying not to think of all the ones still in the kitchen. If anything, his baking is outpacing his eating more and more each day. “What about you? Have you got everything you need? Food, and, and, and toilet paper, and such?” 

“Why on earth would I need toilet paper?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Seems to be the thing to be had, these days.” 

“Ah, right, that. Certainly something I’d take credit for, if I were still making reports.” Crowley reaches somewhere below the camera view and pulls out a bottle of red that Aziraphale doesn’t recognize. “No. Got all I need right here.” He makes a show of uncorking it and taking a swig right from its mouth.

“Crowley!” exclaims Aziraphale.

“What?” Crowley grins. “S’not as if I can share it with you. Or anyone else.” He takes another long drink.

“Fair point,” says Aziraphale, though he finds himself unable to break the same etiquette. He rises and pours himself a glass of zinfandel. 

Though the original meeting was scheduled for an hour, they talk long into the night, as is their habit. The app, knowing what’s best for it, doesn’t interrupt them with a notification or prompt them to upgrade their profiles. By midnight, they’re quite drunk. Aziraphale’s lost to giggles as Crowley switches his background to increasingly unlikely locations. He’s making himself the fourth head on the Queen II album when Aziraphale decides they should call it a night.

He goes from giddy to morose in the millisecond it takes for the screen to go dark. The room feels too quiet, a state which Aziraphale (and librarians the world over) would normally profess could not exist. But he’d seen Crowley, talked to him, and gotten him to agree to another call tomorrow. He isn’t going to sleep until July. They aren’t going to be alone. It's enough; it has to be.

* * *

By their second meeting, Aziraphale’s gotten the hang of the program. He amuses himself changing out backgrounds, messing with the beauty filter, and pretending to mute the demon every time he says something Aziraphale disagrees with. Crowley, for his part, coaxes the angel into a makeshift game of pictionary on the whiteboard function.

“A pinwheel? Someone kicking— something.”

“No,” says Crowley. His face, small in the corner of the screen, screws up with effort. Aziraphale watches it a while before he remembers he’s meant to be guessing.

“Oh— a sigil? Whose?” He squints. “Michael’s?” 

“Noo,” whines Crowley.

“One of your lot? Or, well. Former lot?”

“Chrissakes, angel, how do you get a _sigil_ out of that? It’s our tree in St. James. St. Jameses. Saint Jame...s.” 

Aziraphale blinks. “ _Our_ tree?”

“Our _tree_!” Crowley is exasperated. “The one we always end up under. You should know, you’re the one who always picks it.”

“Ah. So it is,” says Aziraphale, who had never thought of it that way, had never even noticed, but is inexplicably delighted that Crowley had. 

Their game bleeds into conversation which bleeds into mostly silent camaraderie as the wine seeps in. Crowley goes from providing one-word answers and comments to nothing at all, and when Aziraphale notices this he checks the screen to find Crowley asleep, stretched out on his definitely-not-comfortable leather sofa. His head’s propped up against the armrest, the top bit of his chest just visible in the frame; the laptop must be resting on his belly. 

Aziraphale lets out a soft _oh_ and tries to focus on the way it’s chins all the way up at this angle, really, how unflattering, except his eyes keep straying to Crowley’s neck and how long and lovely it is exposed like that. And on the shades slid up into his mussed hair. And on the soft shapes of his closed eyes sans glasses, and on all the angles of him still sharp but so peaceful, and how _nice_ it all is. 

Aziraphale sobers up and rises to do the dishes left in the sink from his baking exploits. One bowl in, he returns to grab the laptop. He doesn’t want Crowley waking up to an empty screen. And he could just hang up, he knows. Probably should. But he finds he doesn’t want to. 

So he does the dishes, and finishes the picaresque novel, and starts in on a volume of poetry, and watches his friend take slow, quiet breaths he doesn’t need. Both laptops stay charged; Crowley’s because it’s top-of-the-line, Aziraphale’s because it has some respect. 

Aziraphale is on his second cup of tea that morning when Crowley rouses, making a confused little face at the screen as Aziraphale peers over the top of his book and bids him good morning. 

Crowley stays confused for a moment, but he smirks and straightens up and wishes him the same. “Could’ve just hung up, you know.”

Aziraphale pulls off his reading glasses. “Well, I thought that’d be rude.” 

“Right,” says Crowley.

He seems put out, but what was Aziraphale supposed to say—the truth? ‘I cherish your company even in sleep’? ‘It’s too quiet when you go’? 

Crowley runs a hand through his very chaotic hair and startles when his shades thunk to the floor. “Talk to you later, then.” 

* * *

Aziraphale thinks about it all day. How nice it was to have Crowley around the whole night, even virtual, even unconscious. How domestic the “good morning” felt resting in his mouth as the sun began to peak through the blinds. How much he regrets turning Crowley down this time, every time.

There really wasn’t any harm in it, he muses. They couldn’t catch or spread the virus. Shopping for two would be more efficient than for one, and they could just miracle all that stuff anyway. Plenty of people were quarantining together. Families. And that’s what they were, weren’t they? Each of them, the closest thing to family that either of them had known.

He raises the question that evening, after they’ve said hello and before he can lose his nerve. “Crowley, erm...when you asked to ride out the lockdown here, with me, was that...in earnest?” He looks up at the screen; Crowley’s expression is inscrutable. “And, ah. Would you like to, still?” 

He gets a raised eyebrow for his trouble. “Why?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale bites his tongue. “I was being too strict, the other day. I don’t think we’d be doing anything wrong.” 

Crowley’s silent for a long moment. “I don’t want you feeling obligated to,” he says. Aziraphale wishes he wasn’t wearing the shades. “It was just a thought.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale insists. “I would just...like it, I think. Seeing you, physically. Keeping you out of trouble. Having your help eating the pastries.” He takes a steadying breath for the sound of it and levels his gaze at the camera. “Being together. There’s the flat upstairs; we can give each other some space when we need it. I just wanted to make the offer.” 

Crowley, mercifully, lowers his shades and peers over them. “Are you sure?” he says seriously. “Because I don’t think I ought to be coming and going, and I don’t know how long this is going to last.” He leans back from the camera, stretching languidly, but there’s still tension in every inch of him. “Could be...months. Do you really want me staying that long?” 

His voice is so doubtful it makes Aziraphale’s heart ache. But that was Crowley—always coming more than halfway, always giving him every out. Of course he wants the angel to be sure. Aziraphale _is_ sure. 

So sure, in fact, that his next words spill out of him without consideration, heavy with sincerity. “Crowley...what about stopping Armageddon together made you think I wanted anything other than to spend as much time with you as possible?” 

Crowley freezes in the stretch, looking faintly shocked. “You— erm—” His arms fall back to his sides, then cross over his chest. He’s blushing. “Right. Okay. I...didn’t want to impose.”

Aziraphale smiles. “You’re not.”

“And you’re sure.”

“Yes. Unless you don’t want to?” He’s suddenly nervous. “I don’t mean to make _you_ feel as though—”

“Shut it, Angel,” says Crowley. And then, at Aziraphale’s miffed expression, “No, I want to. I’ll grab some things and be over in the morning?” 

“Why not tonight?” Aziraphale blurts. 

The demon’s face stills, then twists itself into a smirk. “That starved for company, are you, Angel?” 

“ _Your_ company, yes,” Aziraphale huffs. “You’ve said yourself you’re not doing anything. And I’ve just opened this moscato.” He waves the bottle at the camera, aiming for enticing and landing nearer to admonishing. 

“Ah, well if there’s _moscato…”_ says Crowley, as though this is a profound bargaining chip. “I’ll be there in a bit.” 

He ends the call before Aziraphale can ask how long “a bit” is, so the angel abandons his wine glass to tidy the place up before his friend arrives. He ought to change the sheets—Lord knows Crowley will get more use out of his bed than Aziraphale himself—and the kitchen’s still in need of some serious work...

Crowley pulls up just as the sun’s setting. Aziraphale watches the Bentley screech into its usual spot, miracling done the few chores he hasn’t finished. He retreats to the kitchen to make himself cocoa, and to stop himself from watching from the window as Crowley grabs his things and lets himself in.

The demon looks much as he always does, and yet it’s somehow a great relief to see him, healthy and safe and actually there in the doorway. Aziraphale’s heart swells when he realizes Crowley’s wearing a mask—a dark cloth one patterned with little red fleur de lis. So much for setting a bad example. 

“Hello.” Crowley removes the mask and lingers in the door a moment before Aziraphale beckons him in. He raises a case of something drinkable with one arm. “Brought supplies.” 

Aziraphale chuckles, feeling light. “Thank goodness. Set it there,” he says. He peers at the bag Crowley’s got in his other hand, a sleek black thing caught somewhere between a handbag and a briefcase. “Is that all you have?” 

“Fits more than you’d think,” says Crowley. 

“I should hope so,” says Aziraphale. “It had better have some loungewear; I expect you to make yourself completely at home. And—oh, the plants!” He’d forgotten. “Will your plants be alright?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley says, stretching the words out into the long high sounds he makes when he’s caught caring about something. “Did a miracle to tide them over. Plus…” He rummages in his bag, arm plunging impossibly deep, and pulls out what looks like an early 2000s-era baby monitor. He waggles it, grinning sharply. “I can discipline them from here.” 

The angel lets concern for the plants be washed out by a wonderful rush of affection for the demon. “How clever,” he remarks, busying himself with the cocoa to keep from saying something too fond. Then he says it anyway. “I’m terribly grateful you’re here, my dear.”

Crowley’s grin softens. “Me too.” 

For a long moment there is only the clacking of spoon against mug as Aziraphale stirs his cocoa and gazes at Crowley, neither of them sure what to do next. Aziraphale suppresses a somewhat bizarre urge to reach across his counter and take Crowley’s hand. “Well. As I said. Make yourself comfortable. Shoes off, pyjamas on, whatever you like.” He snaps, changing into his best sleepwear and a tartan dressing gown to emphasize his point, and ignores Crowley’s answering snort. “Go pick something for us to watch, if you like. I’ll get you a glass for that moscato.” 

“Right,” says Crowley, sauntering off. Aziraphale hears him bark a laugh from the next room. “Holy— you weren’t kidding about the baking thing, huh?”

He must be gawking at the mound of desserts on the coffee table. Aziraphale sheepishly doesn’t answer. But later, when he comes in to find Crowley under a quilt on the sofa, nibbling delicately at a piece of bunt cake, he doesn’t feel quite as silly. 

“Get cozy, angel, we’re marathoning a trilogy,” Crowley declares, accepting his glass of wine. 

Aziraphale forgoes his armchair and settles near the demon at the other end of the sofa. With Crowley beside him, he finds he is, indeed, quite cozy.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i don't know anything about wine don't @ me  
> 2\. the trilogy is high school musical. crowley has Taste  
> 3\. me? i'm trash, yeehaw. do sound off if you want a sequel tho :)


End file.
